Accessory to the Devil
by Guardian of Ice
Summary: Dennis Rafkin thought that death would be the end of his torture. But when the ghosts, eager to share their pain, find him, he realizes he was way in over his head from the beginning..
1. Surveying the Damage

This is a fun little idea I got after watching the movie for the 8th time.. I think I want to dump off the life stories of each of our ghostly buddies on my poor, poor Dennis.  
  
Dennis: I hate you. _;  
  
Kori: Oh, wait until you see what I do to you, though! Oh, wait, you're psychic, shouldn't you already know?  
  
Dennis: ......It doesn't work that way.  
  
Kori: Your loss.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Thir13en Ghosts.... well.. maybe just Dennis Rafkin... wait... no, I didn't mean it! *dragged off by police and lawyers*  
  
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Outside the remains of the demolished glass house, it was pouring. Rain pelted the countless shards of marked and unmarked glass alike, pinging against the mostly intact frame and giving the impression of hail as the noise resonated through the surrounding line of trees. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously, a lightning flash or two illuminating a pair of forgotten vehicles that sat in the gravel driveway, their interiors slowly but surely collecting dust.   
  
One, a white van labeled with a quickly made and tacky sign reading 'Light and Power Inc.', belonged to Dennis Rafkin. The other, a flashy-looking and obviously expensive sportscar, belonged to Ben Moss. Both met their fates in the now decimated house, now left as a reminder to warn against toying with the devil and the dead. At first glance, it seemed utterly deserted, the only audible thing at first being the pounding of the rain against the steel frame and the eerie whistle of the growing wind through the leaves. After a moment, though, the unmistakable sound of distant voices rose, faint but present. Not one, but thirteen separate voices, their owners nowhere to be seen.  
  
Suddenly, leaning against one of the many corners of the battered frame, appeared a bloodied and disheveled man, arms folded and brow furrowed in thought. More than a little out of place, he shifted about almost nervously, mumbling something to himself and shaking his head. Seeming totally unaffected by the pouring torrents of water, he looked around through sorrowful blue eyes and once again, shook his head, as if in disbelief.  
  
"Cyrus, you stupid son-of-a-bitch... This is all your fault.." Knowing that taking out his urge to hit something on the remains of the house would do him no good, Dennis Rafkin merely stood rigid, positively clueless as to what to do now. He would have left, had he a place to go, and a way to get there, but unfortunately, Dennis Rafkin was dead. Slowly, he looked around, making doubly and triply sure he was alone for the time being. The voices around him, however, continued.  
  
Out of nowhere, as if on cue, appeared another figure, this one a little more weathered. Her face carried a humble sort of sorrow, an expression of longing and loss all wrapped up into one, her somewhat tousled brown hair no longer stuck to her likewise no longer burned left cheek. Dennis's eyes widened in surprise, before he realized that, one; this is the most harmless spirit he'd encountered so far, and two, he was dead, so the last thing he'd need to worry about was having some violent spirit re-break some of his bones.  
  
Upon fully remembering and realizing who the woman was, however, Dennis felt guilty and cast his eyes away in a rare act of shame. He didn't know what to say to this woman, the woman whose soul he helped to capture, and further torment by putting her in nothing more than a box, to be used in a supposed act of devil-summoning. What could he say? 'Uhh, sorry I stole your soul, lady?', he thought to himself, scoffing at the stupidity and lack of plausibility in the whole mess that had happened only mere hours before.  
  
Being dead didn't seem so much different than being alive. He was somehow still constantly in pain from the other ghosts around him; seeing their lives, their hurt, their memories, and he was still, in essence, alone. After a moment, he raised his eyes to look into the soulful orbs that belonged to Jean Kritikos, who was smiling warmly to him. Taking a step forward, she smiled a bit wider as a look of confusion spread across Dennis's features, and he stumbled backwards so as not to let her get too close. Knowing full well what he'd been through and why he was here in the first pleace, Jean spoke softly.  
  
"I just came to thank you, Dennis."  
  
"...Thank me? For what, putting your soul into eternal unrest? If you think that's a good thing, you need some serious-"  
  
"For what you did for Arthur and my children. Without you, none of them would have survived, and Cyrus would be wreaking further havoc. I owe you so much.. " Jean's smile never wavered, and her eyes were filled to the brim with tears. Knowing she couldn't touch Dennis without hurting him, she did the only thing she could think of to show how deep her gratitude was: she clasped her hands together and bowed before him.  
  
Mouth hanging ajar, Dennis stared dumbly at Jean for a moment, before swallowing hard and managing a nod. Slowly, Jean rose, and, still smiling, took a step back and vanished into the rain. Letting out the unneccessary breath he'd held in, Dennis slumped against the steel, which he knew should be cold, but wasn't. After a few moments of silent contemplation, Dennis came to the simple conclusion that he missed being alive. He missed it to the point that it hurt. Under any other circumstances, it wouldn't bother him at all, not having to eat, sleep, or avoid living people touching him. No -- this seemed worse by far; being stuck with eleven of the remaining ghosts for God knows how long. And, believe me, being dead gives you plenty of time to think about such things.  
  
At a loss, Dennis sighed. There was nowhere to go, and definitely nothing to do. Not that he'd actually tried leaving, but from past experience, he'd come to the conclusion that there would be no leaving this place, not without being shoved into a containment cube and dragged far, far away. And there was no one left to do that, as off-the-wall and immoral as it seemed. Staring blankly over at what had once been his van, Dennis mumbled a string of curses, bending over and picking up a good sized chunk of glass. After studying it silently for a brief moment, rage overtook him and he hurled it with all his might towards Ben Moss's abandoned Lexus.   
  
At the same time as the glass piece burst through the windshield, a deafening crash of thunder rolled through the night, mixing with the insane laughter of what could only be Dennis's least favorite, and uncontestedly most disturbed, ghost. Dennis stood at attention, looking around in panic and backing himself into one of the few standing walls, only able to feel it because of the aggravating containment spells engraved into it. He gaped in shock as one by one, the remaining eleven ghosts appeared before him, trapping him against the wall and staring him down. Slowly, he let his eyes travel over each one, seeing the rage and strange look of need in their eyes.  
  
First, his eyes met with the deep pits that belonged to Dana Newman, otherwise known as the Angry Princess. Feeling himself become paralyzed with fear, he jolted as she made a sudden stabbing motion at the air, obviously wishing she'd had the satisfaction of killing him. Quickly, he shifted his gaze to the left, only to be staring at the half-mutilated face of Royce Clayton, the Torn Prince. Smirking, as cocky as ever, Royce lifted his ever-handy baseball bat, pointing the end squarely at Dennis's face and staring down it at him. Knowing it wouldn't be wise to be a smartass just then, Dennis slowly turned his head to look to the left again, trying to make himself smaller as he found himself almost face to face with the Juggernaut, the Jackal, and the Hammer, all standing right next to each other with empty eyes boring right into him. Trying to suppress a giggle (and failing), the Jackal swiped a clawed hand at Dennis, licking his lips maniacally. Dennis pressed himself into the wall, mind racing at a mile a minute, trying to come up with exactly what they might want from him.  
  
Accidentally crying out in fear when the Pilgrimess appeared before him, closer than the rest, he looked around quickly for some method of escape. Hope sinking quickly the longer he searched, he returned his eyes to the gaggle of ghosts, now complete with all eleven, looming over him. 'Well, at least I know they can't fucking kill me... They took care of that already..' he thought to himself, a low moan of horror spilling from his open mouth. Oddly enough, they all just stood there, staring him into the ground, watching as he trembled in fear despite his lack of life to lose. Finally, anger flaring up inside him, he got up the nerve to scream at them over the raging storm.  
  
"What the fuck do you want from me?! Huh?! You killed me, what the fuck else could you POSSIBLY want?!" He snapped his head from side to side, quite tempted even through his fear to make a rude hand gesture or two. A few of the ghosts grinned maliciously, even stepping closer. Dennis struggled, digging through his mind as his head began to throb, and soon pound, for some reason, any reason at all, for being cornered. Suddenly, it shot through his mind like a bullet.  
  
These ghosts knew he could feel their pain. They'd known it all along. All it would take was a single touch to send him into seizures, as well as seeing their entire and undoubtedly miserable lives flash before his eyes. He realized, swallowing hard, that this must be exactly why they had surrounded him here, right where he couldn't pass: to 'share' their pain with him.   
  
'Fucking Latin spells... I'm gonna fucking get jumped by eleven fucking ghosts, and there's nothing I can do about it!' Dennis's mind began to scream as the Jackal stepped forward, one set of almost skinless fingers reaching for him. Slumping down against the wall until he was curled into a tiny ball, Dennis jolted as the Jackal slowly, as if to rub the pain in, moved forward. Finally, the Jackal grabbed onto Dennis's shoulder and dug in, grinning maniacally as Dennis began to scream.  
  
In Dennis's mind, the life of Ryan Kuhn began to play.. 


	2. Under Pressure: The Birth of a Maniac

A/N: Since I'm not too keen on the dates from the movie, I'm going to make up a date for Ryan's birth, and likewise for the others until I can find the real ones. Bear with me, please.  
  
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*Ryan: Part One*  
  
Adjusting her skirt, Myra Kuhn stared out into the lamplit street through wily green eyes. It was a chilly March evening, and she had gotten little business so far, a rather depressing fact for one with her 'skills'. As a well-dressed man made his way down the cobblestone sidewalk towards her, she straightened and gave him her famous 'come-hither' stare, finding herself pleased as he approached and smirked at her. He was tall, and rather scraggly-looking, but she could see his muscle through his overcoat and grinned perversely. Glancing up into his cold and dead blue eyes, though, she felt a twinge of nervousness creep into her stomach as she realized that he wasn't returning the look. His features had become taut and emotionless, slightly twisted brown moustache catching the perspiration from his face and almost immediately hardening in the cold air.  
  
Taking a little step back, she smiled nervously, making as if to step past him without saying a word. She had gone perhaps three steps when a hand wound itself into her long black hair and yanked her back. Before she could cry out, the man's other hand had covered her mouth and was gripping her face tightly. Taking a deep breath in through her nostrils, Myra could smell the whiskey that had seeped into the discolored fabric of his glove, her stomach turning and threatening to heave. Silently, the man tightened his grip on her hair, and turned her around, shoving her roughly before him into a pitch-black alleyway.  
  
When she made as if to run, he jerked roughly on her hair, pulling her back against his chest as if she were a wooden yo-yo upon a string. She cried out against his hand, even trying to sink her teeth into it, before realizing that the fabric was too thick and her teeth would do little damage. Raising her left hand high above her head, Myra swung backwards with a tightly clenched fist, hitting her anonymous assailant directly in the crotch. Heart pounding in her chest as he momentarily released her, she darted to the left and made a mad dash for the mouth of the alleyway. The lamp across the street her only source of light and hope, Myra bolted for her life.  
  
Twenty feet. Fifteen feet. Almost there... So focused on the light, though, that she did not look where she was going, Myra's feet found a discarded box and she was sent sprawling on her stomach, ankle already beginning to scream with pain. Tears slowly filled her eyes, and she looked behind her frantically, heart almost coming to a stop as she saw the man, red-faced and furious, storming towards her. Struggling to get to her feet, she cried out in anguish as her sprained ankle gave out under her and she fell to her knees, sobbing and beggin for mercy before the man got within ten feet of her.  
  
In the darkness, Myra caught a glimpse of a glint of metal, before she felt the cold steel pressed against her throat. Swallowing hard and choking back a sob of terror, she raised her eyes into the face of the panting man.  
  
"Scream again, and I'll guy ye where ye lay.." He snarled at her, slowly dragging the blade down her neck and into the cleavage of her low-cut dress. After grinning maniacally at her, he sliced her dress open, letting himself fall upon her so his fingers could do the rest. Cutting a sob short as he shoved his lips roughly against hers, he hauled her to her feet, giving one last look around to be sure nobody was around, before dragging Myra into the darkness.  
  
Nine months later, on a frigid December night, Ryan Jeremiah Kuhn was born.  
  
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Sorry it's so short.. I tried putting more after it, but that sentence seemed like a good end for that part. Don't worry, the next part'll be longer. ^_^; 


	3. Sticks and Stones: No Words Necessary

A/N: I think I'll stop typing out chapters like a lunatic after this one, to see how much of a reaction I can get. Reviews are loved, so please, don't hesitate to use that button way down there... x_x;  
  
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*Ryan: Part Two*  
  
Staring up at his mother, the now four-year-old Ryan chortled happily. The surrounding flock of his mother's friends all cooed and giggled and fawned over the grey-eyed boy, who seemed more interested in the smoking thing hanging out of his mother's mouth than anything else. Ryan had grown to be a healthy, good-natured child, despite the fact that his mother and all the people she hung around with were either prostitutes, gamblers, alcoholics, or a dangerous mix of the three. All that aside, Ryan was well-kept and strong, and much to his mother's dismay, looking more like his father every day. She could see the familiar creases in his face, the same shape of the eyes, the same kind of disturbing smile. Putting it out of her mind as paranoia, though, Myra did her best to support Ryan by continuing to whore herself.  
  
Sharing an apartment with five other women wasn't too uncommon for someone of her status, and the utter convenience of having five women to choose from to care for her child when she was 'preoccupied' was bliss for the now thirty-four year old woman. She didn't look her age, much to her own surprise, and was rumored as a tiger under the sheets (assuming anyone ever used the sheets when she was involved). She spent most of her time, however, absent from Ryan's presence, assuming that her housemates would take care of him. Usually, they did, but there were numerous occasions that young Ryan was left to fully fend for himself, even for several days at a time.  
  
On one particular evening, Ryan's mother, and four of her housemates, went out for the night to a bar, leaving Ryan with Sophie, the youngest, bitchiest, and most easily influenced girl in the house. Ryan sat silently upon the floor, drawing upon a piece of paper with a quill and being a general angel. Sophie, far from being a fan of children, was doing her best to ignore him as she waited for a customer to arrive. This customer's name was Jarod Baker, and he was one of the best-known, most infamous alcoholics in the entire city. Sophie, however, catered to his drunken tantrums and his outbursts of violence for the generous pay he administered whenever he decided to roll out of bed and go home to his unfortunate and unsuspecting wife.  
  
This particular evening, however, Jarod was particularly stocked up on vodka and whiskey, stumbling through the doorway with a lit cigar in his hand and his clothes already halfway off. Eager to get down to business, Jarod grabbed Sophie's dress, and with one hand, tore it right off of her, shoved her over to the sofa that served as three different girls' bed, and clambered atop her, cigar still in hand. In the process, though, he knocked over Ryan's inkwell, ruining his artwork and sending the child into a fit of screaming.  
  
Ceasing his slobbering over Sophie to stare through glazed eyes as the wailing boy on the floor, Jarod growled as if to silence the child. Ryan closed his eyes tightly and clutched his beloved quill pen, a present from Myra for his latest birthday, not knowing what to do. As the panting pair sat up, Jarod's anger swelled as Ryan continued to cry over his picture that he'd been working so hard on. Knowing somewhere in his mind that he'd regret it when the alcohol wore off, Jarob snatched the quill from Ryan's tiny fingers, aggravated to find that the screams only grew louder. Eager to please, Sophie lightly patted Jarod's shoulder.  
  
"Gimme your cigar. I got an idea."  
  
Too curious for his own good, Jarod passed the thick cigar to Sophie, who leaned over Ryan and grinned sweetly, getting Ryan's screams to taper off to hiccups. Staring Ryan right in the face, she slowly inched her hand forward, still grinning, and finally, pressed the burning end of the cigar right against Ryan's bare stomach. An ear-piercing scream and a roar of laughter followed, Ryan's hands flying to cover the burn that was swiftly turning purple and tears streaming down his red and blotched face. Jarod laughed uproariously, retrieving his still-lit cigar and taking his turn in burning the innocent boy, right below his ribcage. Ryan sobbed, and pleaded with them, using all of the words he knew to try and get them to stop.  
  
After burning him twice more (each), they resumed their 'business', leaving little Ryan silently sobbing on the floor, and the cigar in a nearby ashtray. Soon enough, Ryan fell asleep, and the other two (after a good romp or three) soon followed suit.  
  
When Myra returned the next morning, though, the first thing she saw were the angry-looking, swollen, and blistering burns upon her beloved son's stomach. Sophie, when rudely awakened, insisted that while she and her latest customer were conducting business, Ryan must have gotten his 'grubby little paws' on the cigar and burnt himself.  
  
For some reason, Myra was more willing to believe her best friend than her innocent child, and promptly took Ryan by the hand to her bedroom and beat him into submission. It was all she could do to set her 'poor, misguided bastard child' straight. After all, she couldn't have any of his father's nasty traits surfacing, now, could she?  
  
Upon realizing that she had a new punching bag to vent her anger upon, Sophie volunteered as often as she could over the next few years to take care of her 'sweet little Ryan', especially when Jarod was around. Impressing him was her greatest desire, as the happier he was, the more money he dished out to her. And naturally, when Myra would return and see some kind of a strange new injury upon her son, he was automatically blamed, and promptly punished.  
  
After two years of this, Myra gave up and assumed that Ryan was mentally handicapped, and decided that harder and more frequent beatings were the best option for his welfare. So every time she returned from anywhere, regardless of good behavior or not, Ryan was whipped, spanked, and sent to bed, usually without food.  
  
Myra always claimed that she loved her son to death, and Ryan, this being the only treatment he'd ever known, assumed it was the way everyone lived and that it was his mother's way of showing him her love. So all he could really do was take it, happy to know just how much his dear, dear mother really cared. Eventually, the beatings were so severe that Ryan's eyes were almost constantly swollen shut, and his mother kept him in the house at all times, fearing that Ryan would be taken from her should anyone see the giant bruises on his body, or the numerous cuts from being his with broken bottles.  
  
Ryan, by the age of nine, grew to hate the sunlight, only seeing it every so often because his room consisted of a small broom closet which, when closed, saw little to no light in the first place. By the age of ten, however, he gave into sleep during the daytime, and rose at dusk under the claim that the sunlight was painful. His pale skin, dark, tousled hair, and cold steel eyes were more than enough 'proof' for those around him that Ryan wasn't normal, and other than Myra, Sophie, and Jarod, nobody came within five feet of the 'demon child'.  
  
And so began the downward spiral into darkness for Ryan Kuhn.  
  
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I know, I'm being horrible to Ryan.. But what else could have turned him into such a horrid.. kinky... ghost? Trust me, it'll get.. better? Worse? Depends on your opinion. Anyways, please review. ^_^; 


	4. Somebody Hates Me: It's All Downhill Fro...

Chapter Four: Somebody Hates Me: It's All Downhill From Here

This chapter may be a bit too graphic for the kiddies, so cover their eyes, send them to bed, or throw them in the closet. Whatever it takes, just do it! Whee!

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And it continued as such until Ryan turned sixteen, beatings, burnings, and everything inbetween further scarring the grey eyed boy. Ryan had become a tall, lanky young man with a love for rodents and insects, these becoming his only friends in his short lifespan. He especially loved the flies; the little insects which satiated his hunger for blood when he ripped their wings from their tiny bodies and threw them aside, as his mother had done for many years. Ryan had become fully accustomed to the dark of night now, and the sunlight had truly, thanks to psychological trauma, become painful for him. He continued to rise at dusk under the odd claim that the sunlight was painful, and for Ryan, it truly was. He even, to protect his mother, blamed several of the burns on the 'scorching sunlight', and nobody questioned the strange young man who seemed to be nothing but a curse upon mankind.

Even when Ryan turned seventeen, he had yet to realize that his anger was building slowly but steadily within him, and that one day, he would surely be pushed over the edge by the horrific antics of his 'dear aunt Sophie' and her man-friend Jarod. One night, when Myra was out conducting business, Jarod came to the door. Ryan, now the housemaid, slowly ambled for the door, eyes, as always, locked onto the dingy wooden floor. Jarod, though, simply let himself in, the heavy door throwing Ryan to the ground. The instant Jarod shambled in, the smell of liquor overtook the room, and Ryan cringed as the stench overpowered his nostrils. He could tell that Jarod was exceedingly drunk, even more so than usual, the stumbling and the mumbling more than proof enough that Jarod was not in his right mind. Jarod peered down at the boy, who was too dizzied by the smell to lift himself to his feet, and sniggered openly, reaching down and grabbing Ryan by the hair and ever so rudely yanking him to his feet. Ryan, used to this kind of treatment by now, merely squeaked in response, biting hard into his lower lip until he could taste the sweet copper that was the flavor of his blood. He hadn't the courage to muster a glower at the large, drunken oaf, and simply stood there, hissing through his teeth when Jarod gave another yank, pulling Ryan's face within inches of his own. Ryan stared hard into the glazed green eyes of Jarod, who squinted at Ryan through unrecognizing eyes, only after a long moment of staring realizing who the boy was.

"Where's my wench?"

"I..uh...She's out.."

This being the first thing that came to his lips, Ryan winced as he realized he'd just lied to one of the most violent men in the city. Jarod took another long moment to process this, then growled at Ryan through clenched teeth. He was easily angered, and just as easily satisfied. Knowing all too well that he'd had a previous arrangement with Sophie, Jarod released Ryan's hair long enough to draw back one meaty hand and strike the boy's right cheek, hard. Ryan cried out this time, this bringing a lopsided grin to Jarod's face. Sophie, alerted by the sweet sound of the little brat crying out, peered around the corner from the tiny kitchen, and grinned devilishly when she saw Jarod abusing Ryan. Sophie slowly came up behind Ryan and slid an arm about his shoulders, tugging him close against her breasts.

"Boo."

Ryan swallowed hard, bracing himself to be struck again, and when the blow never came, he opened his eyes and turned to stare at Sophie. When he recognized that malicious grin, he swallowed again, and tried to pull himself away from Sophie; to perhaps retreat to his tiny room. Sophie's grip tightened, though, and from behind her back, she produced a thick coil of rope.

"I got a new idea."

Ryan's struggles grew frantic as Sophie roughly grabbed Ryan's arms and pulled them over his head, her nimble fingers working to quickly bind his wrists tightly. He screamed then, and tried to break away from Sophie, but Jarod, though drunk, managed to grab hold of Ryan's waist and threw him down onto the couch. Ryan hit his head on the wooden table next to the couch, and as bright spots of light filled his vision and pain began to throb where he'd landed, Sophie climbed atop him and began to quickly unbutton his already ragged pants. She all but tore them off of him, leaving the poor boy's lower half completely bare and exposed to the world, and Jarod, too drunk to realize what he was doing, followed Sophie's lead and viciously tore his own pants away, watching an Ryan struggled helplessly to free his wrists, which Sophie had busied herself in binding to the heavy table leg. Jarod snickered as the boy began to cry out all over again, and removed one of his socks, stuffing it maliciously into the boy's wide open mouth. His screams now muffled, Ryan began to kick and flail, arching his back and trying to sit up, failing in that he was now fully bound.

Jarod quickly removed his undergarments, and crawled onto the couch, grinding his hips and his now freed length against Ryan's virgin body. Ryan's struggled ceased for a moment, as he was completely mortified. He stared pleadingly at Sophie, who had begun to cackle and giggle like some kind of a maniac, and was practically in tears when Jarod thrust his hips forward, pushing himself into Ryan's tight ass. Ryan screamed violently against his gag, tears forming in his eyes as pain overtook his entire body; something tearing deep within him as Jarod pushed himself as far in as he could, and then slowly and agonizingly withdrew himself. Ryan began to sob as Jarod began to thrust violently into the boy, slowly but roughly, simply to draw out Ryan's agony. Jarod continued his slow and generous thrusts for a few more moments, before increasing the pace of his hips and thrusting all the more roughly into the innocent boy.

Sophie, meanwhile, was pointing and laughing, staring down into Ryan's tear-filled eyes with glee and nothing short of pure hatred for the young man. Ryan could only stare back into those eyes, her laughter filling his ears and his mind, tugging at his heartstrings and his insides, feeling himself slip further and further away from reality the harder Jarod pushed. He could no longer hear Jarod's muffled grunts and groans; only the high-pitched titter of Sophie's neverending stream of laughter. Finally, Jarod moaned loudly and released himself within Ryan, collapsing upon the boy and panting hard. Ryan, by now, had slipped away from his mind, staring blankly at Sophie, who was beside herself and out of breath from laughing so long and hard. Her face was tear-streaked and bright red, and Jarod was passed out, stone cold, upon Ryan, nearly crushing him with his weight. Ryan, after another few moments of feeling the swimming sensation in his head and the burning within his loins, let himself slip into darkness, losing consciousness and another piece of his sanity.


	5. Driven Under

Chapter Five: Driven Under

This one's gonna be a wee bit on the graphic side as well, ladies and gents. Please hide the kiddies again, since their poor little minds would be scarred forever. Thank you! ;

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The abuse didn't cease there, either. On numerous occasions, when, of course, Myra was absent, Jarod and Sophie would tie the boy down and have their merry, sick way with him. After a few weeks, Ryan stopped his screaming and crying. After a couple of months or so, he was to the point where his struggles ceased and he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, face the epitome of pallid, eyes glazed, and heart broken by the torture his dear aunt put him through. All he could hear, though, was the maniacal laughter of Sophie, who never seemed to grow tired of watching the boy suffer.

A good two years into the extended bouts of torment that Ryan suffered, when he was a strapping nineteen year old young man, he came to the shocking (at least to him) realization that he had been treated wrongly. It all dawned upon him as Jarod was thrusting himself rapidly into the young man, and Ryan's eyes opened wide. His vision panned from Jarod, to the laughing Sophie, and back to Jarod. Suddenly, a boiling rage began to fill him, starting from his toes, which began to twitch madly, and slowly made its way up to his stomach, which began to burn like fire. His eyes went wide as Jarod made a particularly rough thrust into him, and he clenched his jaw, balling his bound hands into fists. After a long moment, he summoned up all his strength, even some he never knew he had, and brought both his hands straight up into the air, tipping over the coffee table and sending it flying backwards into the wall.

Hands now free of as much as the heavy wooden table, Ryan stared hatefully up into the face of Jarod, whose mouth had opened into a ridiculous 'o' of shock. He had stopped mid-thrust, and the veins that popped out on his forehead began to bead with sweat, his thick brows riding all the way up to his receding hairline. After a long staring contest, Ryan opened his mouth and began to scream as loudly as he could, bringing his hands down roughly upon Jarod's head and sending him toppling to the floor. Ryan slowly rose to his feet, staring at the no longer laughing Sophie through a thick curtain of black hair, panting hard as he averted his gaze to Jarod, who was frantically trying to pull his bulk up off the floor. A kick to his ribs saw him flat on his face, and Ryan began to giggle a little, the need to inflict pain upon his oppressors slowly but surely rising up within him. After all, how dare they! They had no right to his body! He'd never felt so.. dirty.. before. He felt empty and dirty and angry and he hated it. He'd never known how awful of a deed he'd been committed to. He knew now, though. He knew better now, and they would pay dearly for the pain they had caused him. They would feel it tenfold, even if it were the last act he committed on Earth.

After all, his mother had taught him all about God, and Satan, and Hell and Heaven, reminding him as often as she could that the promise of Hell waited for bad little boys, and since Ryan was always such a 'horrid little boy', he was sure he was going to Hell. Many a time he'd imagined what Hell would be like; even wondering if it would be a better place than the one Sophie and Jarod inhabited, and many a time he wished for death, just so he'd be away from such a place. He never realized, though, that he was already in Hell; and that there was no worse place than the one he lived within. There would be no salvation for him, no safety in the arms of either God or Lucifer, no judgement day in Purgatory, not yet, at least. There was no escape for Ryan, except into the safety of his own mind, and with the last shred of his sanity gone now, there was nothing stopping him from releasing his pent up anger upon himself, upon his peers, and upon the world. The light was gone for Ryan Kuhn, and there was no turning back.

Stepping back and behind Jarod, Ryan pulled the rope that bound his wrists tightly against Jarod's throat, feeling the man struggle for air beneath the thick coil of rope. Slowly, a twisted little smile pulled its way across Ryan's dry, cracked lips, and he tugged a little harder, watching in something similar to glee as Jarod's face turned red, then purple, his eyes bulging and his veins nearly bursting from the effort of trying to breathe. Carefully, so as not to fully strangle the gasping, writhing man, Ryan slowly ushered Jarod to his feet with a series of rough yanks with his wrists, lips still pulled back as though by wire into a maliciously gleeful grin. Slowly he pulled tighter, and yet tighter, and finally, with a brutal twist of his forearms, Jarod's head turned in what was nearly a full circle, a horrid cracking like the snapping of a piece of plywood echoing about them and pulling a cry from Sophie's lips. Ryan's grin only widened, and his lips began to bleed, little rivulets of blood running down his chin and neck, though he seemed totally unaware of it. He continued to hold Jarod's limpened body up for a long moment, then finally straightened his arms and let the heavy man collapse to the floor with a dull thud.

Slowly, like a wild animal approaching an unsuspecting bit of prey, Ryan slunk forward, stepping over Jarod's body and making his way toward the horrified Sophie. Sophie shrank back from his outstretched hands, eyes wide in pure terror and defeat. She knew there was no way out, no way to save herself from what she had done to him, and now he was after her and there was nothing in the world she could do. Tears filled her eyes and she began to mumble incoherently, shaking her head violently and spouting pure nonsense as Ryan grew ever closer, his fingers hooked into claws as they brushed against her bare shoulders. Roughly, he shoved her backwards into the wall, watching tiny pieces of plaster crumble and flutter to the floor around them. He grinned maliciously as she began to sob and scream all at the same time, a high-pitched wail filling his ears and partially crushing his feeling of glee. The last thing he needed was someone coming to see who was screaming. He wanted Sophie all to himself now, and nobody was going to take that away from him, not without a fight. He thrust his hands up, one on either side of her head, the ropes that still bound him cutting into her lips and momentarily silencing her screams. She tried to push him away with violently shaking hands, and failed when he tried to wrap the rope around her own throat, her face reddening and puffing up. Ryan, finding this completely unattractive, released her throat for the time being, snickering to himself at the look of hope that had suddenly danced through her wide eyes.

After another solid moment of staring into her pitiful eyes, Ryan brought his knee up as high and as hard as he could, at the same time bringing his hands up above her head and pushing downward roughly. Her chest met his knee in a sickening crunch, several of her ribs snapping like dry kindling under the force of Ryan's newfound strength. She crumpled before him, a weeping, sobbing mass of a woman, little tiny flecks of her blood framing her lips and chin, her eyes beginning to glaze over as unconsciousness tried to take hold. Ryan leaned over her, and slapped her smartly and suddenly across the face, wrenching a cry from her bloody lips and sending her into a gasping fit, coughing and choking as she struggled for breath when Ryan plopped himself down upon her, inwardly pondering on what evils would make them even in stature. What things could he do to her to make her feel the pain that had torn at his insides for so long? How could he hurt her to make her know how he had felt all this time? It all dawned on him suddenly, in a fleeting and shocking thought. He now knew exactly the way he wanted to gain his revenge.

Slowly, Ryan dragged his nails down Sophie's broken chest, grabbing roughly at her breasts, quite pleased when she began to writhe in pain from the pressure on her fractured ribs. Using his jagged fingernails, he grabbed at the top of her dress and simply yanked on it, tearing it away from her and leaving her in nothing but her stockings, which he also quickly relieved her of. Grinning wickedly, he traced his fingernails across her body, leaving invisible patterns that it seemed only he could see. Leaning down over her, he ran his tongue across her chin in an attempt to taste the blood that was still running from the corners of her mouth. He giggled a little, and soon the giggle turned into a full-fledged, high-pitched laugh that had Sophie clutching her ears rather than trying to force him away. He stopped short, though, when she raked her nails across his face, her fingernails taking several small chunks of skin with them, a shrill cry of terror and adrenaline tearing itself from her throat. Ryan quickly clamped one hand over her open mouth, ignoring the bites and the flails, still triumphant as he sat atop her. She reached up to yank on his hair, and he used his free hand to punch her in the chest, causing her to arch up, nearly choking on her own blood because his hand still covered her mouth. Quickly, so as not to choke her so soon, he removed his hand and replaced it with his lips, eagerly and hungrily tracing his tongue over her blood-smeared lips and finding himself pleased at the coppery taste that filled his mouth. She didn't even try to bite him now, but simply lay there, writhing in sheer agony as pain coursed through her like a wildfire.

After using his tongue to violate her mouth for a few moments more, Ryan re-positioned his hips somewhat, pressing the tip of his exceedingly hardened member against her exposed entrance. Her glazed eyes grew wide in shock and horror, and she struggled a little against his grip on her wrists, failing in that she could barely move. Grinning down at her, Ryan ground his hips against hers, watching in glee as she continued to cry and shake her head, feeling her writhe in disgust and pain beneath him. He greatly enjoyed watching her suffer, and made no indication that he was going to stop anytime soon, pressing the tip of his length against her entrance, which was, to her horror, growing more moist by the second. Finally, with a little snicker, Ryan thrust himself into her, closing his eyes in bliss as she threw back her head and screamed. His thickness, despite her lack of virginity to lose, tore at her insides, pulling at her as he withdrew and thrust again, her cries filling his ears and both increasing his pleasure and his rage. She had no right to scream, after all, no siree. She was getting just what was coming to her, and she needed to lay back and take it.

Again and again he thrust, savoring the feel of her tight heat; taking his pleasure slowly at first, then gradually, he sped up his motions, gripping at her wrists until his nails dug in and her flesh tore and began to bleed. She also began to bleed from the sheer force of his violent, desperate, yet somehow still deliberate and grinding pumps of his member into her intoxicating warmth. Her cries never tapered off, she just continued to scream and blubber and whimper, even calling him by his name now; no, no, no more calling him 'brat', those days had been cut short, and he greatly enjoyed hearing his name spill from her lips as through an accident; nothing more than a little slip of the tongue. Releasing one of her wrists, he struck her left cheek, hard, and hissed through clenched teeth.

"S-say it again."

Sophie just stared at him through those tear-filled, doe-like eyes, completely clueless as to what he meant. He slapped her again, and all but screamed it this time.

"SAY IT AGAIN, YOU FILTHY LITTLE BITCH!"

"SAY WHAT!" She screamed back at him, eyes wide and near bulging as she stared helplessly up at him, flinching back and losing that last little bit of backbone as he brought his hand down upon her cheek yet again, and this time she felt something snap deep within her skull as her head hit the floor, her eyes rolling back for a moment and her jaw going slack as she allowed sweet unconsciousness to try yet again to take her. Ryan, though, slapped her once more, bringing her back to reality, her mouth beginning to leak blood all over again; her pale skin now becoming colder and clammier the more blood she lost. Gathering the remains of her broken courage, she spat blood right into his eyes, listening to him cry out in what was nothing other than pure, unbridled rage, and he hit her again, and again, not even able to hear her scream anymore. All the while, he continued to thrust, feeling himself grow closer and closer to his climax, the end that would also mean the end for Sophie; his heart racing and his skin crawling in anticipation, his eagerness swelling deep within him, almost enough to match his fury.

Sophie's screams tapered off to muffled moans, her mouth all but gushing blood now from his weight atop her, her ribs making a sick sort of crunching noise as the broken pieces ground against one another, as well as against her organs. Ryan was simply delighted by the distant, cold look in her eyes, and somewhere deep within himself he wondered if he had ever looked like this. This thought seemed to ignite something within him, and his thrusts increased in power and speed, and with a loud, sensous moan, Ryan spilled himself deep within her, and as he did so, he collapsed atop her, blood now for sure coming out her mouth in a mass exodus of fluid; a torrent of crimson that left him reeling with both disgust and delight. He was light-headed now, and as he pushed himself up and off of her, he stared down into her open-mouthed, wide-eyed face, watching her mouth motor, naught but a tiny squeak slipping forth from her bloodied lips. He leaned down over her, tilting his head to perhaps hear what she had to say; see if she wanted to beg for her life yet. Sure enough, she mumbled through her own blood, pleading with him as she took her last breaths.

"P-please... h-help me... p...p..please.." With each consonant, little flecks of blood accumulated upon Ryan's neck and cheek, and he smiled knowingly down at her, his eyes glittering in that way that only lunatics' eyes can.

"Shh...shh... Now, Sophie, dear Sophie..." He reached down, and upon seeing that she hadn't the strength left to flinch away from his touch, he stroked her cheek for a moment, then leaned down close to her face.

"All I wanted for you to do was say my name, Sophie. Would that have been so hard? Now, look at you, you've soiled yourself up! Sad, and you were such a pretty little wench, too.." He continued to stroke her cheek, watching her choke and gurgle on her own blood. She reached up for him, trying to make some kind of an apology, but failing, and after a moment more of struggling for air, she fell limp beneath him, her still-wide green eyes boring into his, mouth gaping open like the gates of Hell itself. Ryan's eyes suddenly grew wide, and his vision panned from the dead whore before him to his still-hard member, which was covered with her blood. Yet more blood began to pool around them, pouring from Sophie's mouth as Ryan scrambled to get to his feet, in his panic accidentally pushing down upon her chest, only to hear that mind-numbing grinding noise all over again.

Ryan suddenly felt very sick, sick to his stomach, his head beginning to pound and his body beginning to go numb in a cold sweat. What had he just done? His head whipped around, and he stared, open-mouthed at Jarod, whose body had begun to turn a pale tint of blue, veins and ropemarks like a roadmap of Ryan's deeds, all leading to one inevitable destination: Ryan was crazy. He was a crazy little boy, and he was going to Hell. Hell Hell Hell. Hell for sure, yes, indeed.

"I... I'm not crazy..."

Ryan whispered to no one, mostly to himself, though, as a final reassurance, but it failed, and as tears of shame and horror began to pour down his cheeks, hot and salty, he pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his tattered clothing, throwing it on as quickly as he could. He took one final look about him, at his horrible acts, and he began to sob as he threw the door open, running away as quickly as he could, unable to stand the smell of death that had already permeated the room.

There was nothing left here for him now, and as Ryan Kuhn threw himself out onto the cold street, he knew there was no turning back. Looking around slowly, to make sure he wasn't being watched, Ryan took off down the street, and then disappeared into an alley, never to return.


	6. Hallucinating Hack

**Ryan: Part Five - Hallucinating Hack**

A/N: No, I didn't die. Just got busy. But here you go, update for you! Another graphic one, so duct tape the kiddies' eyes closed. Or just throw 'em in the closet again. Whatever works.

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Ryan ran.

He ran for what seemed the longest time; until his legs could take no more and threatened to spill him onto the gloomy, rain-soaked streets.

The thought of what he had done sickened him.

He ambled aimlessly into the heart of the city, stumbling over strewn garbage and veering around passersby, who stared after but quickly forgot the disheveled man; seeing him as just another hopeless, homeless fool.

At the same time, the thought of what he had done intrigued him.

It picked at the edge of his mind, peeling it away and molding it into something completely different.

'That rotten bitch deserved it. Deserved _all_ of it.'

He shook his head, as if to try and clear the thought.

Still, it lingered.

Overhead, the thunderheads swelled, and lightning flickered in the distance. A single star peeked through the thinnest cluster of clouds, seeming to wink at him as though it understood everything.

Ryan stopped, stumbled a little, and then stared up at the sky, even as rain began to pour from the heavens, drenching him and chilling him further. Maybe that nagging voice was right. Maybe Sophie _did_ deserve it. She got what was coming to her. Maybe it was what God wanted. Yes, that explained everything. Would God not be the only one to fill him with such _anger_? Such _hatred_? He'd never known such pure, unbridled emotion. His fear was slowly melting away into realization.

An eye for an eye, that must be what God intended for him to enforce.

What Ryan did not remember was Jesus's wise phrase: _'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone'_.

Nor would he have cared if he'd known.

Ryan's thoughts came to him in a frenzy. If God wanted him to punish, would others like Sophie deserve the same judgement? Is that what God wanted him to do? As if in answer to his silent question, a bolt of lightning stretched itself across the sky, and a wave of thick, ominous thunder followed. Ryan's grey eyes flickered in the darkness that the dim streetlamps couldn't seem to touch. He would fulfill God's whim, then. He wasn't crazy after all.

Suddenly, a velvety voice from behind touched his ears.

"Care to satisfy a lady's itch?"

He turned, and met with the dull green eyes of a short, redheaded woman. She was pudgy, and only mildly attractive, and the dress she wore seemed to be ready to burst at the seams at any moment. Her overly painted lips pulled into a smile, and she batted her eyelashes in an attempt to lure him in. His head hung low, he took a step closer. His hands balled into fists, then opened again, hooking into claws. The woman tilted her head, growing nervous, and took a couple of steps away. She felt chills dance their way up her spine as she stared into the haggard curtain of dark, dripping hair; and when she saw the way he hunched over as he stepped forward, she prepared to turn and run.

Ryan seemed to sense it, though, and as she turned to flee, he lunged at her, his arms wrapping themselves around her waist and tugging her against his chest. She flailed her legs, kicking him in the shins with her pointed boots, and he snarled in pain and anger, releasing his grip in his surprise. She stumbled, nearly overbalancing as she landed, but righted herself and began to run.

Blindly, she turned the nearest corner and bolted towards what she thought would be an exit. Instead, she ran right into an ivy-covered wall, and finally, lost her balance. She toppled backwards and onto her butt, crying out, and frantically tried to pull herself to her feet. Ryan watched from the mouth of the alley, his face stony and his eyes empty.

"You whore."

Two words.

That was all it took to send her into a fit of terrified screaming, and Ryan, after a moment of deliberation, started to stride toward her. She shrank back and against the wall, trying to make herself as small as she could; as if she thought she might make herself tiny enough to be unseen. Her attempt, however, failed.

The fear in her eyes was visible even in the dim light, and it was just enough to quicken Ryan's strides into a jog. As he neared, he swung out with one bony fist and brought it around and into the left side of her face. In the brief moment that his hand touched her face, he felt her jaw snap and shatter, blood spraying from her lips and coating his face and arm with a thin mist of red. He licked his lips and watched her topple to the ground, dazed.

"Can't scream now, can you? Filthy little bitch; God has no use for women like you."

He lashed out with one foot and felt it hit home when it sunk into the meaty flesh of her chest and connected with her ribcage. She managed a wet, gurgling cry of agony, and began to weakly paw at the air as if to deflect his blows.

Ryan couldn't help but laugh at the poor, piggy woman that lay before him. She was pathetic! A worthless waste of God's precious time. Her place was not here on Earth. She belonged in Hell with Sophie. All women belonged in Hell, he thought; but especially the kind that worked and lived as Sophie did: as filthy, street trash whores.

He knelt and rolled her onto her back, pinning her arms above her head and grinning down into her face. There was no humor, only a sick sort of pleasure that he seemed to derive from watching her writhe beneath him. She offered a very weak struggle, and stared up at him, terrified, searching his face for any form of pity.

There was none.

"Perhaps _Lucifer_ will have you," he breathed hotly into her face, and she tried to scream again, but her broken jaw flared up in a blanket of agony, and she could only moan, coughing a little as her own blood trickled down her throat. With one swift jerk, he tore her dress in two, tearing the skirt away from her chubby legs and using his knee to spread them. Horror returned in her eyes as she realized what he meant to do, but try as she might, she couldn't push him away. His will to continue seemed iron. She knew, at that moment, that she was going to die.

Ryan sneered at her when his eyes met with her bare nethers.

"You wretched _**harlot**_," he all but frothed, "naked as the day you were born!"

The redhead began to weep, her breath hitching in her chest, forming heaving sobs that Ryan didn't seem to notice. He reached down, not bothering to hold her down any longer, and slid his pants down to his knees. She slowly shook her head, eyes pleading, but Ryan only grinned again, thrusting into her savagely. Somehow, she found the strength to scream again, and Ryan wrapped his hands around her throat and clenched them tightly, feeling her windpipe close beneath his steel grip. In a sudden burst of energy, she began to claw wildly at his hands, having trouble finding a grip as he began to thrust into and out of her, taking his pleasure roughly. Her eyes bulged from their sockets and her rouged cheeks began to take on a blue tint as Ryan strangled her.

His anger rose again, and instead of a fat, redheaded face; he was staring down into the mocking, laughing eyes of Sophie. He yowled and squeezed upon her throat harder, intensifying his thrusts until she began to bleed. Still, Sophie seemed to be laughing at him. He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into her throat, listening to her gasping and feeling her convulsing beneath him. He opened his eyes to watch her struggle; watch her die all over again, but found himself staring into the fading green eyes of the redheaded whore once more. Enraged further by the fact that he hadn't finally destroyed Sophie, he spat down on the darkened face of the woman, and moved his hips as fast as he could manage, feeling his stomach grow tense as his release neared. Angered or not, he still managed to draw pleasure from the way the whore's eyes darkened as her face had; and from the way she went limp beneath him. As her hands fell away from his wrists, he cried out, releasing himself deep within her and arching his back.

He breathed heavily, releasing his grip upon her crushed throat to prop himself up with his hands, feeling a twinge of satisfaction spark within his chest. She had paid for her sins; and in the process, Sophie had grown closer to being fully destroyed. The ghastly smile returned, and as Ryan pushed himself to his feet, adjusted his clothes, and gave the woman one last good kick, he came to an eerily startling realization.

He _enjoyed _what he had done.

And he wanted to do it again.

After all, it _was_ God's will.

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Ruh-roh, Raggy! He's losing it.

Review, please.


	7. Apocalypse Please

**Ryan: Part Six: Apocalypse Please**

**A/N:** I'm not dead yet. Ha! Reviews, people, are what keep me going. I know it's not hard to tell me your opinion; everyone has one! Let me hear yours!

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Two months had passed since Ryan had fled from his broken home, and at his hands, two dozen women had met their ends. There was hardly a method to his madness, not anymore. He killed almost indiscriminately, the only link between any of the women being their chosen method of income. Fat women, skinny women, beautiful women who could have done better for themselves, ugly women who had no hope even in this particular lifestyle. Ryan killed them all because they were whores, and knew in his heart that someone from above was smiling down upon him. The Good Lord needn't dirty His hands, after all.

The usually pleasant-tempered city had grown dark and gloomy, and rain always seemed imminent. People tended to unconsciously come home a little earlier and double-check to ensure their doors were tightly bolted. The citizens were not oblivious to the mysterious depletion in the number of street callers, and the police secretly agreed amongst themselves that whoever was responsible was, in all reality, doing them a favor. Of course, at this time public relations between the police and the people were very slim; everything was passed along by word of mouth and firsthand observation. People observed the police and their skin-deep nonchalant attitudes about the spree of whore-killings, and people adopted it for themselves, though deep down, they still feared the being in the night.

Ryan, by this time, had lost a dramatic amount of weight, and though he had already been skinny, now he was gaunt, bony, and angular; and it seemed very unnatural. To look at him made a shiver run down one's spine; and made a person feel… wrong. His hair was long, shaggy, and matted, and he had grown a rather impressive length of beard. He was dotted with sores from his exposure to the elements, but none had become infected yet, so he was not worried. Ryan had found a temporary solace in a particular alley in the heart of the city, amongst a stray bunch of dogs. People walked by and shook their heads at him, tsk-tsked, and occasionally threw some money in his direction. Nobody, though, lingered to speak with this man, and Ryan grew to enjoy his solace. It gave him more time to pray, after all.

One particularly stormy evening, Ryan emerged from his alley, brushed himself off as best as he could, and shambled off to search for tonight's lucky lady. After meandering a few blocks, Ryan came upon a scrawny blonde woman who was leaning against a lamp post and batting her eyelashes at anything that moved. Ryan's lips pulled back into a sneer, and when the woman's eyes turned to him, he glanced around to make sure there was nobody watching. When he was sure he would not be interrupted, Ryan lunged, hands outstretched, and wrapped his fingers around the blonde's throat. She was caught off guard, and could not muster a scream as Ryan dragged her into the nearest alleyway, kicking and flailing.

What Ryan did not notice was a pair of eyes that peered from between a pair of trash cans, glittering with interest.

Ryan did not waste any time, he knew this was risky because it was still so early in the evening. After a brief moment of indecision as to whether or not to take his pleasure tonight (he hadn't in so long), he shook his head and forced the girl to her knees before him. He growled at her, and she strained to hear him over the pouring rain.

"You… are… a sinner... And you must… repent…"

He slapped her, then, hard. She reeled backwards, eyes wide in shock, and a tiny ribbon of blood began to trickle from one corner of her mouth. She moaned in terror, and began to shake her head, raising her hands to try and push him away. Ryan punched her roughly in the cheek, and this time her eyes rolled up into her head and she swooned, slowly toppling backwards. Ryan reached out and caught her by the hair, her eyelids fluttered open again, and she opened her trembling mouth to plead with him.

He raised one finger to his own lips to silence her, and then lay his free hand upon her forehead. He released her hair, and she stared up at him, blinking against the rain and sputtering so she could breathe; trembling violently beneath his suddenly gentle touch. She could not pull her eyes from his jagged face, and so did not see his other hand vanish into one of his pockets.

"Do you love God, bitch?"

The woman nodded fiercely, eyes wide. Ryan smiled placidly, and gently stroked her forehead with the ball of one thumb.

"Then go and tell him."

Ryan's hand appeared from nowhere with a razor clutched tightly within its bony digits, and with one swift slash, it tore open the blonde's throat. Her hands slowly rose to her gaping, gushing neck, and her mouth motored silently when she watched her own painted fingers come away bright with blood. She seemed to contemplate this for a moment, then her hands fell away to her sides, and she raised her quickly paling face skyward. She seemed to try to speak, but only a few bubbles of blood passed her lips, and after a moment of silent reverie, the mousy blonde collapsed onto the wet and stony ground.

Ryan's placid smile never left his face, and he nodded slowly; almost understandingly down at the dead woman. His moment of pride shattered when he heard a shuffling of footsteps on the cobblestones behind him.

Slowly, Ryan turned, clutching his razor tightly, to face whoever had seen what he had done. His eyes locked onto a man perhaps a bit younger than he, wearing clothes nearly as ratty as his own, different in that they were obviously prisoners' attire. Wide blue eyes locked onto Ryan, and then darted down to study the dead woman. The scrawny man seemed very skittish, and appeared to be ready to run at any moment, shifting his weight nervously back and forth.

"I saw wot ya did there… Michael saw it, 'e did…"

Ryan's lips pulled back into a sneer, and he took a step forward, preparing to shut this man up, but was stopped when he spoke again.

"Michael's not gonna tell no one, no, no… Michael… wants to help."

Ryan seemed taken aback by this statement, and the hand clutching the razor fell to his side. He'd not expected this… Perhaps the flighty little weasel was lying..?

As if he'd heard Ryan's thought, Michael skittered around Ryan as widely as he could, and bent over to study the dead woman's graying corpse. Ryan was startled by a sudden titter of laughter, and Michael clapped his hands and giggled like a child. Ryan stifled a laugh of his own. After all, it was rather amusing, the comical look of surprise that would be forever plastered on the bitch's face…

Suddenly, though, Michael lashed out with one boot at the body, and there was an audible crunch as a few of her ribs splintered. Ryan's laugh stopped short, and he thought to himself for a few moments. Michael looked to Ryan, obviously looking for a sign that he would be accepted. After what seemed a silent eternity, Ryan reached out and lay a hand on Michael's shoulder.

"Tell me, friend… Do you believe in God?"

Michael nodded enthusiastically, lacing and unlacing his fingers before him. Ryan's placid smile returned.

"Good…. You see, Michael… You are to begin His work tonight…"

Ryan draped an arm over Michael's shoulder and continued to talk, slowly leading him away from the staring blonde's corpse and out into the dark streets of the city.


	8. Of Mice and Madmen

**Ryan: Part Seven: Of Mice and Madmen**

**A/N:** Here you are, my lovelies. Enjoy.

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The twitchy young man's name was Michael Cambridge, and of all his problems, his excessive energy was the least. Michael had been raised in a family much like that of Ryan's, and when he was a boy, his father took it upon himself to discipline the boy. His idea of discipline was to throw Michael down the stairs, and when the broken boy reached the top again, throw him back down. All this mistreatment brought only one forseeable consequence: Michael was severely handicapped. His mind was fragile and his thoughts were erratic; as though his body had kept growing, but his mind had stopped when he was still a child. He was a large boy, far from fat, but possessing a frame like that of his father, tall and beefy. It gave him the appearance of a gentle giant, and so made him very unassuming.

As impressionable as his childlike mind made him, his meeting with the serial killer Ryan Kuhn brought about a feeling of kinship. Here was someone else like him! Someone lonely, and deep down, angry. Michael had fled his home when he turned sixteen, and had spent the past year living amongst the trash and rodents in the gutters, using his angelic, placid face to con cityfolk out of their food and monies. It didn't take much, and he almost never had to thin about it; only to turn up his grubby, chubby face to passersby, and suddenly, he was provided a meal for another night.

In the weeks after their first meeting, this proved absolutely invaluable to Ryan, as he still frightened away nearly everyone who came too close (without even trying). He and Michael took their home in a particularly dark alleyway behind a bakery, and their time was spent either praying, sleeping, or hunting. For weeks, the two continued their spree, and for weeks, the police failed to capture them. Even the pompous, courageous inspectors avoided the dark alleyways come nightfall, and so for the two thrill killers, all was well.

Michael was content to follow any instruction Ryan gave, and Ryan was quick to instruct. He wanted to share his mission with someone, and it was as though the Lord had dropped just that someone right into his lap. It all seemed to be the work of fate, and that suited Ryan just fine. He did not know how long he would have to continue ridding the streets of the strumpet trash, but he knew if he kept on without fail, he would receive whatever reward his God had waiting for him.

Soon after meeting Michael, Ryan adopted a private policy to stop using these whores for pleasure as he killed them. If they were to do the Lord's work, it must be a solemn task. He strongly impressed this upon Michael, who eagerly complied, so long as Ryan remained pleased with him.

Feeling as though he had found a surrogate brother, Michael tailed Ryan like a mongrel , nipping at his heels, always eager to please. He saw no wrong in what they did, and only did it because Ryan had told him to. The sense of juvenile pride that swelled over him when he saw Ryan smile after Michael had choked the life from one of the 'painted ladies' was enough to make him want to pull himself from the stinking gutters. Though because he was becoming a man, he was also coming into desires. These desires his child's mind could not understand, and each time they made a kill, he came a little closer to giving into them, because they were so pressing and urgent. He dared not bring them to Ryan's attention, because he did not want Ryan to think him impure; and he certainly didn't want to go to Hell. The fabled place of fire and brimstone kept Michael firmly planted within Ryan's control, and that was just the way he liked it.

Three months passed in what seemed the blink of an eye, and it was a cold, dreary December night. A mist blanketed the city, and the once bustling late night streets seemed very big, and very empty. Ryan led Michael out of their hovel, and they began to silently scour the paved, lonely streets. It didn't take long for them to become separated; as Michael's attention could never linger anywhere for very long, and Ryan moved so quickly through the mist, lurking like a gaunt feline.

Ryan usually came across victims first. It was just something he had a knack for, almost as though he could smell them and follow their scent. Tonight, though, Michael came upon a woman completely by accident, and even so, she had really come upon him; placing a hand on his broad shoulder from behind and rasping into his ear with a voice thick from too many cigarettes, "Well, 'ello there, big boy…"

Michael, easily startled and very clumsy, whirled on his heels and toppled onto the ground, landing firmly upon his tailbone and hissing in pain and surprise. He raised his watering eyes to the stranger, and felt a little thrill roll up his spine when he saw the petite redhead bending down over him, smiling pleasantly into his face. Her breasts were pushing hard against the front of her lacy trappings, and Michael had to swallow hard and resist the urge to reach out and grip them.

"Take a little tumble there, did ya, love?"

Slowly, Michael nodded, and scraped himself to his feet, his eyes never leaving the girl's bosom. Obviously accustomed to such lingering stares, she tossed her thick mane of curls over her shoulder, giving him a better view as she straightened, tilting her head slightly at the flustered boy. He cracked his fat knuckles nervously, craning his neck to peer around, searching for any sign of his partner. Finding none, he smiled faintly at the woman, and snatched his hat from his head, clutching it in his sweaty hands, opening his mouth and reciting the speech Ryan had taught him for getting women within reach.

"Go-good evening missus… As a cautious man, I m-must ask you to let me have a closer look at you be-… before I take you home for…. For the evening." All this blurted in one breath, and rather than giving him the benefit of the doubt, the girl took a half step back, looking like a deer having smelled danger. Michael smiled boyishly, his face lighting up, and all the woman's doubts seemed to melt away, and she came forward, extending a hand slowly.

With an awkward sort of speed, Michael grabbed her arm and pulled her closer, whirling her to face away from him and quickly covering her mouth with one large hand. Giving one last look around to see if Ryan was here to watch him, he swallowed hard and let the arm encircling the woman's waist slide upward to squeeze one soft breast. She squealed against his hand, and began to beat upon his thighs with her tiny hands. Michael barely noticed, and continued exploring the girl's body with his fingers, feeling himself grow more and more excited. Why had Ryan never let him do this? He'd always had to watch before; had only ever been able to experience a woman's body from afar.

When her fis met with his suddenly obvious erection, his boyish face turned into one of adult rage, and he clubbed her roughly upside the nose with his fist. She gasped, and he felt his fingers grow wet with blood. She sagged in his arms, and slowly, he lowered her to the ground upon her back, unzipping his trousers and pushing up her skirts before he even knew what he was doing. The woman lolled her head, dazed, and spat blood into his face. Snarling in a bestial fury, he struck her again, and this time, her eyes fluttered closed. He began to fumble with himself, giving into the overwhelming urge that burned deep within his loins. So caught up with preparing to rape the woman was he that he did not hear Ryan's footsteps come up behind him.

Ryan struck suddenly, bringing a piece of pipe down upon Michael's skull. Large as he was, Michael went down easily, wailing and clutching his bleeding head. Ryan frothed inaudible curses at him, and lashed out with one foot, catching his partner squarely between the ribs. Michael wheezed and coughed, unable to catch his breath, and rolled over to stare up at Ryan through leaking eyes.

"This is not what the Lord wanted you to do! He commanded you to keep yourself restrained! This is how you serve him?!"

Michael opened his mouth to speak, and Ryan brought his fist up in a cruel arc, catching him under the chin and bringing his teeth together roughly around his tongue. Blood and pieces of Michael's teeth flew in all directions, and Michael began to sob, clutching his broken side and throbbing head. Slowly, Ryan knelt next to his compatriate, the unconscious woman nearby completely forgotten, and took Michael's puffy, blood-spattered face in his hands.

"You have failed me, and therefore have failed God. Do you understand?"

Ryan's tone was quiet and level, as though he were simply stating that the sky was blue, or that the moon was full. Michael coughed. Ryan punched him again, this time directly in the face, feeling Michael's nose give way under his fist. Michael went down again, sputtering and choking on his own blood.

Slowly, Ryan pulled his razor from his pocket and knelt over Michael, his lips moving in silent prayer as he pressed the sharp blade to his apprentice's trembling throat. Michael managed to choke out two words, blood streaming from the corners of his lips as he did so.

"Forgive…me…"

Ryan stared hard into Michael's eyes, and with no trace of emotion, replied, "Not even He will forgive you."

Michael's eyes finally filled with fear, and at that moment, Ryan pushed as hard as he could and drew the blade across his throat, with no hesitation.

Slowly, Ryan rose to his feet as Michael's blood puddled around his feet, and he spared the unconscious woman a final glance before turning and slowly slinking back into the shadows; an emotionless, lifeless wraith. He was alone again, but only in body. The Lord was stll with him, after all.


End file.
